In Proportion to One's Courage
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: WARNING for implied abuse, gang violence. John and Lestrade take to the streets to gain insider information for Sherlock, but Lestrade's "old history" complicates matters.
1. Chapter 1

_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

_Special thanks to ImpishTubist and MorganStuart for having put ideas into my head and then encouraged me to post them. I humbly suggest you all read everything those two have ever written._

_Inspired by the prompt: "To help Sherlock get the information he needs to solve a case, John and Lestrade spend a long, cold, and unexpectedly dangerous weekend undercover on the streets posing as part of Sherlock's 'homeless network.'"_

* * *

><p>The first thing John noticed was that Lestrade wore his clothing to the point of disintegration.<p>

It felt a little strange, being wrapped in the detective inspector's old, grey tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt. Stranger still were the gusts of wind he could feel through them, cold fingers of a London winter tickling his spine, raising the hairs on his arms and making him hunch up even smaller in the already-too-large clothes.

"Why the hell didn't you replace these months ago?" he asked, and thought he should probably have said 'years.'

"They're comfortable," argued the DI. "And at least you know where yours came from." Lestrade was dressed in grubby jeans and a stretched-out cotton polo neck of dubious provenance, both of which had been found for him in the bin of unclaimed personal property left behind by discharged prison inmates.

John shuddered. "Don't think about it too closely."

"I wasn't, until now."

Sherlock appeared around the corner. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Do you understand the system?"

"_Yes_, for God's sake, Sherlock, you've explained it to us _three times_ already now."

Lestrade added, "If you were ever this forthcoming at crime scenes, you'd be a lot more popular with forensics."

"I think," Sherlock replied, "that Anderson's issues with me stem from my being rather… _too_ forthcoming."

"And yet you don't stop."

"No."

Sherlock seemed to think that that stood for itself, so Lestrade shrugged and dropped the subject. John looked both of them up and down. "Do we get jackets?"

"One of you does."

"One of us?"

"There was only one." Sherlock held up a dull green windcheater with a fleece lining and questionable stains along one sleeve.

John and Lestrade looked at one another, neither one particularly eager to add it to his ensemble.

"You'd better take it," said Lestrade. "You've only got short sleeves."

"Right. Remind me, Sherlock, why we've got to do this?"

"John, we've been over this – the only way we're going to find anything out about those murders is to gain insider information. I need insiders."

"You have an entire homeless _network_. Why d'you need _us_ to do this?"

"They won't talk. I can pay them for information I need, but this is different. The killer is quite clearly attacking the homeless and the poor, and I pay them in fifty-pound notes. The community protects its own; they won't let someone like me in on this."

"You'd think they'd want Sherlock Holmes on the case."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes to them, John. I'm just a man who gives them handouts in exchange for other people's secrets. I'm the last person they would want… investigating."

Lestrade sighed. "Well, let's get on with it, then."

* * *

><p>They huddled together near the side of the river, looking at the way the bridge lit up at night.<p>

"Funny," said Lestrade. "I always reckoned if I ever had to sleep rough, it'd be _under_ a bridge."

"Put much thought into it, then, have you?"

"Mmm." But the DI didn't seem to be interested in elaborating, so John said, "If it's a bridge you want we can go and have a look 'round."

"I'm not hung up on the bridge. When d'you suppose Sherlock will be around?"

"Dunno. Why?"

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Starving. I'd forgotten because I'm bloody _freezing_."

"Well, whenever Sherlock comes by with the… payoff, we can get something to eat and maybe get warm for a bit."

"You sure we can't just find a place to stay? No Second Night Out and all that?"

Lestrade shook his head and John thought he detected something in the set of the older man's jaw, the way his eyes slid over the black water of the Thames and came to rest again on the bright lights of the bridge and its surroundings.

"He targets rough sleepers. We won't find out anything if we go to a shelter."

"Trust Sherlock to make this as difficult as possible."

"Hey." Lestrade nudged John with his shoulder. "We're all right. Only been out here a few hours. People manage for _weeks_."

John moved closer, appreciating even the small amount of warmth the two of them could share. "I s'pose. Still, I wish – "

He was cut off by the appearance of Sherlock Holmes walking rapidly down the street, and stared mutely until Lestrade muttered to him, "_Change._"

"Change – any change, sir?" John managed, loudly enough to reach Sherlock despite the chattering of his teeth as the sentence trailed off. It would do, at any rate, and it brought Sherlock over to them with a folded bill between his fingers.

Lestrade stepped back, away from John, as the money changed hands. "Thank you," he said, softly, echoing John's much more audible gratitude. It didn't matter; Sherlock would hear both and know that while John's words were part of their established script, Lestrade's were meant sincerely.

Without watching the younger man leave (important; Sherlock had warned them that it would look very suspicious to focus on him instead of on their takings), Lestrade took and examined the note they had been handed, wrapped around a scrap of paper on which Sherlock had written,

_Whitechapel, moving west_

"How does he _know_?"

"More importantly, if he can do that, why are _we_ out here?"

"'To observe,'" John quoted, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice.

"Come on," said Lestrade. "Let's go and find someplace that's still open. What d'you want to eat?"

"Anything warm," John said. "Anything we can afford."

"We've got a tenner."

"A – I'm going to _kill_ him!"

"Why?"

"His _proper_ informants get fifties!"

Lestrade passed John the banknote and ran a hand through his already-tousled hair. "Well, add it to the list of things we're going to kill him for when this is over. In the meantime, I suppose it's the Saver Menu for us."

"Lovely," said John. "_Perfect._"

* * *

><p>Later that night, the wind picked up and John caught Lestrade crouching down behind a wheelie bin, trying to avoid the worst of it.<p>

"You can't spend all night like this," he said, hauling the DI to his feet. "We've got to find somewhere out of the weather."

"Can't. Have to stay outside." Lestrade's sentences were brief, the shivers running through him forcing him to bite off the ends of his words or risk his voice giving the lie to his curt statements.

"Fine, we'll stay outside. We don't have to do it here."

They walked along the embankment, past stragglers clearly wishing they had not stayed out so late, past dark-shadowed people in dark coats who avoided the sodium glow of the streetlamps, past shuttered buildings and boats closed up at their moorings, until they warmed a little from the constant movement and found themselves in a back alley in Blackfriars.

Lestrade frowned up at tall, imposing sides of grey buildings, mediaeval Gothic styles contrasting with cast ironwork and steel.

"Are you sure?"

It might just have been the Victorian air to the place, but he wasn't sure he wanted to let down his guard here at all, much less find it a viable place to sleep.

"It's sheltered – a bit, at least," said John, "and none of this has got much point if you're just going to die of exposure."

"Think it'd crack Sherlock's façade a little?"

John grinned at him. "You see through it too?"

"Don't tell him. God forbid he thinks we think he _cares_."

"You're right. I can picture it now. 'He was a _witness_, John. Now who will I get to sleep on the streets for me for no good reason?'"

"Keep your voice down," but Lestrade was chuckling nonetheless. "Every petty criminal and his brother'll know what we're up to if you're not careful."

"Considering _we_ don't even really know…"

"Don't forget. 'Whitechapel, heading west.' We'd better stay in the more frequented areas – we're no good to Sherlock if we don't go where there are other people."

"Right, yeah, of course. We've got to be _insiders_."

A huff of breath from Lestrade, whispered answer to a laugh.

"I ever tell you about the last time Sherlock had me out here?" John said conversationally as they moved on in search of more populated alleyways.

"Last time?"

"We were looking for that assassin, you remember, from – " He cut himself off, remembering the weight of that night; following his friend thoughtlessly into danger, crazy patchwork of memories from the planetarium, the Golem standing silhouetted tall against the lights and Sherlock, both fists raised and yet useless against his adversary of the moment.

Basically, then, a metaphor for their entire lives.

"From… yeah, I remember." Lestrade wasn't going to say it either, and John felt a stab of gratitude for that.

"At least that time he let me have my…" and again, a topic that could not be discussed.

"Your own clothes and a proper jacket," Lestrade filled in smoothly, "yeah, _well_."

John nodded at him and the message was perfectly clear. They both knew what John had been going to say; in fact, they both knew quite a lot of things neither one of them had ever discussed. And as long as they kept things that way, they could both go on knowing absolutely nothing of the sort.

"Here," said John, and they paused in front of a darkened alley where Lestrade could just barely make out the dim silhouettes of people, low humps clustered together at the far end of the street.

"Not too close," said Lestrade. "We're not intruding, just… sharing the space."

They settled in a small area next to a set of concrete stairs, John flopping down with the confident air of a man who can sleep under any conditions, Lestrade leaning against the rough stonework wall and shivering as the nighttime cold crept through the thin material of his polo neck.

He wrapped his arms around himself, suppressing his body's reaction to the chill, but John had already noticed.

"Here, take the jacket."

Lestrade stopped him as he started to tug on a sleeve of the windcheater. "No. You've only got a T-shirt, are you mad?"

"Look at you, you're freezing."

"Yeah? And how long d'you think you'll last without anything on your arms?"

"You can't spend the night like that."

"Won't have to. We've been out here for ages; must be well gone midnight by now. Be up again in a couple of hours."

John shook his head. "I'm going to _murder_ Sherlock, I swear."

"Well, don't tell me about it. Plausible deniabili… what are you doing?"

"As a licensed physician, making sure the hypothermia doesn't kill you before we can get his bloody 'insider information.'"

Lestrade blinked a few times, trying to decide exactly what level of protest would be acceptably blokey and masculine without actually pushing John away. Because John was warm, and his arms around Lestrade were far more comfortable than the frigid wall.

He gave up. No point.

"Er. Right, then." He rubbed the back of his neck, scruffed up the hair there, and leant back against the wall again, this time taking John with him. "Ah… good night?"

"Night, L'strade," John mumbled, already halfway to sleep.

_Soldier_, Lestrade remembered. John could probably fall asleep _anywhere_.

He settled in for what was left of the night, letting the penetrating cold of the tarmac creep up through the bones of his legs, feeling them go numb but too tired to do anything about it – too tired and too trapped by the grip of a compact army doctor.

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow they could start making Sherlock's enquiries.


	2. Chapter 2

'Tomorrow' came far sooner than either of them wanted, grey vines of dawn twining along the street after what seemed like only moments of sleep.

Lestrade squinted down to the other end of the alley, but the shapes they had spotted last night still remained motionless. He knew you learnt to disregard light and dark when you lived out here, sleeping through the brightening morning until people were up and about. He couldn't do that– he was far more used to scraping together odd hours of rest while on the job, falling dead asleep in his office chair at two o'clock in the morning, dozing fitfully on the couch on Sunday afternoon after forty-eight hours awake to apprehend a difficult suspect.

John, too, was still asleep, still wrapped around him for warmth, and he gave the younger man's shoulder a gentle shake.

"Mmf."

"Come on, John, it's getting light out."

"_Mmf_. So what?"

"So we've got a job to do for – if we want to lay hands on this murderer, and we'd better get on with it. I know you haven't spent a lot of time on London streets, but we'll fare a lot better if we don't start off on the wrong foot. And – erm – cuddling in a back alley is a _bit_ the wrong foot."

John jerked back as if he hadn't realized until now that that was what he was doing. "Er… sorry."

"'s all right. Didn't die overnight, did I?"

A weary grin from his compatriot. "Why's it still so bloody cold?"

"Because it's February?"

"You'd think," said John, "that if Sherlock were going to put us out here, the least he could do is warm it up a bit."

They laughed and that, at least, made the day seem somewhat less insurmountable.

"It's not so bad," Lestrade told him. "It'll warm up through the day and we can move about. And we've still got – " he scrabbled in his pocket for a moment and squinted at the coins in his hand – "five pounds and change for breakfast."

"And tea," John added firmly.

"'Course."

A shout came from the street behind them and they turned to see figures moving about; whoever had been sleeping down there wasn't anymore. Lestrade strained to hear and managed to make out disjointed exclamations.

" – last night, right 'ere – "

" – ain't been in it weeks – "

" – Jesus bloody Christ – "

He didn't know what it was that sounded off about it, but he was halfway down the alley before he even realized he was running, John close behind.

"What's this?"

"The 'ell are you?"

Lestrade flung an impatient arm down the street to where they'd been sleeping the night before. "Who is he?"

"_Was_," growled the dark-haired man who stood opposite him, blocking access to the unmoving shape on the ground.

"Jesus, he's – "

"Yeah, 'e is, and I'm not off making it both o' you if you don't – "

"Look, we're only here to – he's a doctor – "

"I am," John hurried to add. "If you let me have a look…"

"You can't 'elp a dead man, _doctor_."

"No, but I can always – oh."

Lestrade set his jaw and leant closer, confirming what he already knew – that this was the work of the man they were after. He knew what John had meant to say, but in this case, the cause of death was fairly obvious. He'd never seen a sweater sop up so much blood. Which was saying rather a lot for the leader of a murder investigation team.

"Look 'ere, gerroff 'im, will you? What the 'ell you doin' 'ere anyway, if you're a _doctor_? What you doin' out 'ere with _us_?" The man shifted into a confrontational stance, feet planted firmly, arms half-raised, fists clenched as he inserted himself between John and the body on the street.

The response was almost automatic. "Oi!" and Lestrade hauled the man away, knocking John aside with his shoulder at the same time. "He's got just as much right to be here as you, and don't think he doesn't know it!" He slid a foot into the gap between the larger man and the still legs behind him.

"Who's this, your _boyfriend_?"

"Don't think you want to start a fight with me, mate," Lestrade said, rocking back on his feet into a ready position, fists curled at his sides. "You might have me now, but I've got people up Hackney way."

"Ooh, _people_, ain't _we_ toff?"

"Toff's as it may be," said Lestrade, and his face was grimmer than John had ever seen it. He pulled the sleeve of his polo neck up, well past the elbow, and held it out to the other man, muscles taut in his arm.

The man took a step back, muttered, "Out of your territory, ain't ya?"

"What business is it of yours?"

He dropped his gaze. "No business. What you want with 'im?" Sideways tip of the head to the body still lying beside them, John crouched uncertainly at the torso.

"Nothing. Just passing through. Not the first, is he? Heard some things."

The man glared at them and Lestrade immediately looked away. They weren't here to start anything, and antagonizing people in the area would achieve nothing for them. They'd already have to find somewhere else to go; though he and John wouldn't get any more trouble here, word would spread about this little pissing contest and no one would trust them, either.

"Suit yourself," he said, as gruffly as he could. "No time for kids' games. Deal with it. Don't want the wrong people getting the wind up them."

"Yeah, and who's the wrong people?"

"Just – deal with it." And with a gesture of the head to John, Lestrade walked down the alley without a backward glance.

He didn't say a word until they had managed to scrounge up some breakfast for themselves, and John didn't dare try to start a conversation. The look on Lestrade's face was hard and foreign, anger and worse clearly visible in the angle of his jaw and the darkness of his eyes.

They ate in silence, cheap sandwiches from a street vendor that, along with the tea John hadn't mentioned again, pretty near cleaned them out. The food was almost gone before Lestrade said, "You're not going to ask?"

John shrugged. "You'll tell me if you want to."

"I don't."

"All right, then."

"I don't, but I have to. That was bloody stupid of me, the whole thing, and – best if you understand what we'll be dealing with now."

"Okay."

Glancing around to make sure no one was paying them undue attention, Lestrade tugged up the sleeve of his pullover again.

John looked. "L.O.M.?"

He let the sleeve drop, smoothing it back down over the tattoo. "Look, _no one_ knows about this, all right? Not even Sherlock. He might've guessed, but he won't know for sure. And not about – _that_."

"What is it?"

"It's…" and the older man inhaled deeply, letting it out in a sigh. "It's a gang."

"Why've you got a _gang_ tattoo?"

The question earned him a scathing look. "Why d'you _think_?"

"I dunno, undercover ops, something? Like we're doing now?"

"My life's not a bloody film, John. I don't go undercover every five minutes."

"You were… _you_?" The same incredulous tone of voice John had used when he'd discovered Sherlock's less-than-desirable past.

"Yes, _me_. Does that surprise you?" Echoing Sherlock again.

"Of course it surprises me. You're a DI. Aren't you supposed to be, you know, against all that?"

"I am. You can't always help what happens to you."

"What happened to you?"

John, Lestrade thought, had always been direct. A bit too direct, in this case, but there wasn't much for it. He had to know now.

"Slept rough when I was a kid. A lot. Got caught up in this. Don't have many options, kid on the streets with no protection, you do what you're told or… you do what you're told."

No response from John, just that steady gaze.

"These guys were the ones that got me. Roughed me up and then. Well. Gave me a choice."

"What choice?"

"They could… do… worse to me, or… I could be a runner."

"So you joined up."

Brief nod.

"Not much of a choice, was it?"

_Less of one than you know._

"But you got out."

"You might say that." _You're never really out._

Quizzical look from John.

"Crew doesn't exist anymore. Youngers dropped the name; call themselves Hoxton now. All over rivalries. It's a bad game. Yeah, I got out."

_We're not talking about how._

"So that fellow back there, he was, what, scared of you?"

"Scared of Hoxton. Told you they're all about rivalries; make enemies, you make yourself a name."

"So… what are we dealing with now, then?"

"Going to have to sleep somewhere else tonight. Word gets around; no one here will tell us anything."

"That's not all."

"No. Dangerous, what I did. Any one of a dozen gangs'll want our blood now. Not ours; mine. You… ought to leave. Forget this undercover thing, go back, help Sherlock, I can stay."

"What, alone? After what you've just told me?"

"I can handle it myself, John. Done it before, haven't I?"

"Yeah, younger, and with an entire gang behind you. I'm not leaving."

"Go."

"No."

Silence, and they looked at one another until John raised his paper cup and took a determined sip of his tea.

It was so very _John_ that Lestrade couldn't think of a response, and instead he evaluated. John was a soldier, and a good one, as he had reminded them on numerous occasions. He could probably fight – Lestrade cast a doubtful glance at the injured left shoulder and revised his estimate; John could probably fight if needed, but he had a weakness – and he would definitely be no stranger to trouble.

Maybe he didn't have to protect everyone all the time.

"All right, stay," he said, "but if you do, you've got to listen to me, understand? I've done one stupid thing already and I'm damn well keeping us away from any more. All right?"

A nod from John and another sip of tea.

"And – "

John waited, but Lestrade didn't continue. "And?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"Involving you in all of this. I should've – I know better than that, I'm not an idiot. I just – he was going to hurt you, and I – " He broke off and shook his head, rubbing a hand across his brow. "Stupid, stupid…"

"Hey, stop it," said John gently. "That's my friend you're talking about. Come on, hadn't we better find another place to find things out, if we can't stay around here?"

"Back to Westminster," Lestrade agreed, "that's safest."

"Easiest for Sherlock to find, too."

"Sherlock'll find us anywhere."

A strangely comforting thought. "Okay, let's go."

* * *

><p>As they walked, John asked, "Shouldn't you tell someone?"<p>

Lestrade was instantly on his guard. "Tell them what?"

"About the body."

"Oh." He blew out a breath. "No. Whoever's on that beat'll have found it by now."

"Don't you have to – make a report or something? I mean, isn't there police procedure for something like this?"

"For sleeping through a murder on the street behind you, then flashing gang credentials at the thug who discovers the body? No, I don't think so."

"Oh. Right."

"I'll make a… full report on Monday." _Sort of full, anyway._ "Hopefully along with an arrest, if Sherlock does his bloody share."

Some minutes passed. A double-decker bus full of tourists swung along the embankment going far too fast and Lestrade frowned, but didn't say anything. There wasn't much he could do without a uniform, a warrant card, even a set of clean clothes.

John seemed to share the sentiment, as he wriggled his shoulders against the windcheater he was still wearing and muttered, "Could do with a shower."

"Mmm," was the absent reply. They'd been out less than twenty-four hours. As the memories came back, he recognized the feel of sweat in his hair and grit under his fingernails. One day of London grime was nothing.

Eventually, John's stolen glances came too often, his unspoken words too heavy in the air between them.

"What?"

"Hmm?" John put his head to one side and looked at the inspector.

"What aren't you saying?"

"Nothing."

"Go on."

John shifted uncomfortably. "It's just – why were you sleeping on the street?"

"Eh?"

"When you were a kid. Why were you on the street?"

Lestrade's frown deepened and he bit his lip.

"Sorry," John said hurriedly. "You don't have to tell me. It was stupid of me to have asked."

"No, it's… all right. It's all old history anyway." _That's good. That sounds casual. Right?_ "My dad was – well, he – liked his whisky." _He was a complete piss artist, you mean._ "And he was a nasty drunk."

Again, John didn't say anything. God, he was good at that, at getting you to talk by doing nothing whatsoever.

"I slept rough because it was either that or let him hurt me." _More._

"What did – " The automatic doctor's question, cut off abruptly a moment too late and replaced with something different. "What about your mum?"

_Jesus._ His entire life teased out of him bit-by-bit by John's quiet words. But some things just couldn't be said.

"She died."

John, horrified, "Did he – ?"

"No! God, no." He swallowed. "Cancer. I was fifteen. That's when he really started with the drinking."

They walked on in silence for a while, both lost in their own minds.

John had never even given thought to Lestrade's home life, but if he ever had, he would have pictured it much like his own – loving parents (stern father, indulgent mother), bit of a cut-up at school, roughhousing with friends (and Harry), summer hols spent working part-time jobs and mooning after the latest cute girl (or boy) he'd met in Brighton.

Reality, it seemed, was very different.

He thought of something, suddenly. "How much does Sherlock know?"

"I don't know. We've never talked about it. He's probably deduced most of it by now."

John grinned wryly. "Took him all of about ten seconds to deduce Harry's alcoholism."

"Your sister?"

Belatedly, John realized that they'd never discussed _that_, either. He was just so used to assuming his secrets were common knowledge. Side effect of spending all his time with Sherlock, he supposed.

"Yeah, she… spends a bit too much time at the bottom of a bottle, too."

"Sorry."

"Not your fault. Not anyone's but hers." _Compared to you, mate, I got off easy._

"Easy to say," Lestrade said. "Harder to believe."

They kept on walking.


	3. Chapter 3

"Don't suppose there's any money left for lunch."

Lestrade felt doubtfully in his pocket, then held out the handful of change. "Whatever you can get for 50p."

"Damn," said John. "Trust Sherlock not to think of that."

"Are you hungry? I can find us somewhere to eat."

"You mean like a day centre?"

He shook his head. "Soup run. No day centres open for free lunch on Saturdays."

"What, none of them?"

"Are you hungry?"

"I'll be fine."

He would. One meal missed was like one day without a shower – nothing.

"So… what now?"

"We go and find people. Come on. Let's be Sherlock's insiders."

He withheld the comment that he'd ended up being far more of an insider than Sherlock had ever intended, and John withheld it, too.

"Keep your head down, though. News travels fast, and someone representing for L.O.M. is news."

"And if you say leave, we leave."

Good.

They ended up at St. Martin's, just off Charing Cross Tube station, hanging about outside the wrought-iron fence as services closed for the day and people began to emerge onto the steps. It was easy from there to slip into the crowd, follow people back to the places they seemed to congregate. Someone was bound to say something before long – they were already getting sidelong glances from the younger people around them – but it would give them some ground. Lestrade went through several options in his mind and settled on the truest one to life. Their mutual weariness would make it as believable as it needed to be.

Sure enough, one of them finally asked, but not exactly the question Lestrade had been anticipating. "Are you following us?"

_Yes._ "No. Well – yes."

"What?"

He considered the speaker. Young, mid-twenties maybe. Money, if he wanted it, but no sense, which was why he was out here among the invisible homeless of London, sleeping rough – no, shelter, maybe, only rough in the summer, Lestrade was willing to bet – and turning down his opportunities. Political, probably; activist; git.

Amazing how it all came back to you. Like riding a bloody bicycle.

He knew exactly what to say. "Been about for a while. Had to leave our last patch." He shot John a quick look, just enough so the other man would catch it. "Might have been trouble. Just looking for a place to kip a night or two, just 'till…"

"Night centre here's good," the young man said. Feeling him out.

Lestrade shook his head. "Get you in there once, they start putting you into their system. Before you know it it's all counselling this and training that and your life's not your own anymore."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught John's surprised look, but at least he had more sense than to say anything.

"Right," said the man opposite him slowly. "Well, there's a group of us that… you sleep out?"

"Yeah."

"Down at the river. We've got a spot."

"You inviting?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You want?"

"Yeah. We do." _We don't come separately._

"Come on, then. What's your name?"

"Greg." John would catch on. Anything but his real name.

"James," and John stuck out his hand to the other man, who nodded and took it.

"Gabriel."

As they made their way back to the embankment, following at a carefully-judged distance behind Gabriel and his companions, John asked, "So – this is good, then?"

"It's all right," said Lestrade. "These guys – " he dropped his voice – "don't know anything."

"How d'you know?"

"They're just kids after a lark," he said. "If they didn't want to be here, they wouldn't have to be. No one who knows anything will talk to them, either."

"Then why are we with them?"

"We needed an in. We're not _with_ them, we're just taking advantage of their space. Anyone with any experience out there will see that."

Experience hardened his voice; the harsh familiarity of what they were doing now seemed to age him a little more. John reached out and clapped a hand over his shoulder, then patted it uselessly for a moment. A stupid gesture, maybe, but he'd needed to do something to answer the rough raggedness he'd heard in the undertones of Lestrade's words.

"'s all right," he told the detective inspector. "We'll get what we need."

"Yeah," Lestrade returned, a shadow of his old grin on his face, "'cause Sherlock'll kill us if we don't."

"Murder all 'round, then," John agreed amiably.

* * *

><p>Night fell; John found himself wishing for the caricature of homelessness he saw so often in films, old oil drums stood on end and filled with friendly flames, stew cooked in rusted tin cans and served and shared around.<p>

Instead, he sat huddled in the grass just off the road, blinded alternatingly by headlamps of cars rushing by and then by blank darkness that followed, shrouding his eyes. Lestrade stood some way off, keeping a sharp eye out for Sherlock.

The detective was supposed to rendezvous with them every night. That was the deal – because they needed him (money; they had none and no way of getting any in their current state), he needed them (information, not that he wouldn't know already about what they'd seen that morning) and it maintained the fiction of their membership in his homeless network (vital; made them look like they were 'in the know,' made them look like they belonged). But it was late (perhaps; not having watches or mobiles made them a little hazy on the passing of the hours) and they had seen no sign of him. Maybe he wasn't coming.

"You should get some sleep, J – ames," he said softly.

"I'm all right, Greg." It was Lestrade's real name, given as an alias because he never used it in everyday life, and John felt strangely privileged to be saying it aloud.

"You're shivering. You can barely keep your eyes open."

"It's fine."

The older man sighed. "You can't – " but he was cut off by shouts ringing out from the edge of the street. His eyes snapped around.

"Stay here."

He crossed the grassy area in long, quick strides and found a couple of the kids from Gabriel's crowd standing opposite a group of youths (well, under-thirties, which to Lestrade was synonymous), angry and defiant, cursing in ways Lestrade had never even heard in his time on the streets.

"What's this?"

"Who're you, old man?"

"Shut up. What's this about?"

"'s about your mum, way I fu – "

"Shut the _fuck_ up." He knew how to take charge – not just police experience, not just negotiation skills, but something harder and more dangerous, something he refused to allow himself to feel. "What. Is. This?"

The man addressing him lounged back, pursed his lips and cast a smug look at Lestrade. _I don't have to take anything from you I don't want_, was the message, and oh, how wrong he was.

"Lookin' for a Hoxton boy. We heard he was 'round these parts."

A cold smile began to gather in the corner of Lestrade's mouth. "Sure you have all your facts right?"

"You tellin' me you think I'm _wrong_?"

"I'm telling you I _know_ you're wrong. No young gunners 'round here, the man you want's old blood. Love of Money. Or didn't you know?"

"Love of Money, what the hell is that? That's dead and gone. Bring 'im out."

"I have." And the smile twisted the rest of the way around his face, while the good, upstanding man inside hoped against hope that it would make him look like the street-smart idiot he had once been.

Clinging to that hope, he grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pulled up, and as he did, he heard three things.

The kids behind him, gasping and falling back – they'd never meant to get involved in old gang wars. They didn't even _understand_ the way it was out here, not _really_.

The kids in front of him, hissing and spitting (warm saliva on his cheek; he didn't wipe it off, no weakness here) and a silvery metallic sound he knew, he knew too well, oh, _fuck_ –

And John, behind him, breathing, "Greg," as if in warning or in benediction, but he didn't know, he didn't _know_, he wouldn't have heard the sound, he wouldn't have known what to listen for.

_Get out. John. Get out._

He stepped forward.

"Go on, then. But remember who you're taking up with now. You really want to start this?"

"G'wan, old man. Got nothin'."

He wasn't going to start anything; he knew better than that. If only he stayed still, if only the idiots behind him kept their mouths shut, if only these boys were just posing (but the knife, the knife was not a game)…

Everyone might still get out of here unharmed.

Crunch of dry grass as the first kid in Gabriel's group (no, not the first; more than one) took off. _Good._ That was right. The boys in front of him took a step forward, all of them, almost in unison. He nearly laughed aloud, and that would have been suicide right there.

One raised his fist.

He stood, unmoving –

but John didn't.

John's rugby tackle connected flawlessly with the man in front of him, taking him down, and if they had been in the army just then, it would have been perfect – take out the leader; cut off the head; the rest will follow when they have no orders.

But they weren't in the army and there was nothing worse John could have done.

They fought well, both of them, and John was handling two of them with ease, but Lestrade was looking for the gleam of metal and he was distracted – kick to the legs; he stayed upright, but barely – he hit back, sent the boy reeling, _Christ_, he was going to be sent up for this – blow to the back, fell forward, doubled over another fist, breathe, _breathe_ –

_There._

The knife he was hoping he'd imagined.

He yelled and slung a fist at the nearest figure, hoping to draw attention to himself (John, _John_), but he'd been fighting poorly and he wasn't their main focus anymore.

Another blow, low on his spine, sent him to the ground. He tried to drag himself upright, but a boot – his head – he tasted blood; the world around him spun wildly – first instincts; he covered his mouth with one hand and ran his tongue over his teeth, still there, all right, back up – there were other boots, other fists, but he couldn't think about them now, and he pulled mostly upright in time to see three of them on John (not three, he couldn't handle three) and the knife was there, _right there_.

He half-ran, half-stumbled over miles (six steps) of grass, John, John, Sherlock would kill him (no, he would kill Sherlock) (might be a moot point in a minute). No, too late, the knife was up, no time to warn the man on the ground in his old workout clothes, no time to grab the knife, just time, just barely time to fall –

He'd missed. The kid holding the knife had missed.

That was his first clear thought after collapsing on top of John, spreading his body out to cover as much of his friend as he could.

The second thought was, oh.

No.

He hadn't missed.

There was no pain, no… nothing, really, but the knife was still – he could feel it, grinding against something in him, robbing him of breath, but… no pain…

His third clear thought was _now I understand_, which made no sense, but that was when the pain began, because his body had rolled over and the knife dragged on his skin as it slid free (_no_, damn, that would be a problem now, but he had no energy to fix it).

John hadn't moved.

The last clear thought he had was terror, because John hadn't moved.


	4. Chapter 4

He woke up remembering, and not in hospital.

"What…"

"Shut up."

_John._

"What happened…"

"Shh!"

_John was all right._

"But…"

"Greg Lestrade, I swear to God, if you don't shut your mouth and let me finish this…"

He shut up.

A few minutes later, his head was lifted up and laid down gently on hard tarmac.

"Ow."

John's face filled his field of view and he realized he must have had his head in the doctor's lap.

"What were you…?"

"Stitching you up. For God's sake, they had spikes in their boots."

"They did?" _They didn't when I was…_

"How did you not notice? One's sliced clean across your forehead. What did you think I was stitching?"

"The knife…"

"You idiot, if I'd left that 'till now… I _am_ a doctor, you know."

"Why'm I not..." _dead_ "in hospital?"

John's mouth thinned to the angriest line Lestrade had ever seen. "_Sherlock._"

"Sherlock?"

"You thought I'd fought off six hardened young gang members myself? Should I be flattered?"

"Sherlock helped?"

"Sherlock's _people_ helped."

Right. Sherlock had his own connections on the filthy streets of London.

"Hospital?"

"He wouldn't let me take you."

"Wouldn't have stopped you."

"He told me you wouldn't want to go."

Lestrade nodded and the motion of his head set off a dull, deep ache – and then he felt the answering throbs prickling through his body, bruises, cuts, a burning in his chest.

"The knife." The second time he'd asked.

"Hit your sternum. You lucky sod. Turned it off to one side. The cut on your chest is pretty bad, but nothing you can't survive."

He'd seen, then.

"Been stabbed before."

"Yeah. I know."

"Nearly died."

"Didn't look minor."

"It's what got me off the streets, in the end."

Nothing. He was doing that thing again, trying to get Lestrade to talk. Or maybe he just didn't have an answer.

Lestrade raised his head off the rough surface of the street. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Just bruises."

"They only had the one knife?"

"I suppose so. Hey."

"Hmm?"

"You saved my life."

"No, I didn't. Don't be – "

"Thanks."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, so he opted instead for another quick nod and, "Help me stand up, then."

"No. Stay down."

"God, no. I'm bloody _freezing_."

He suddenly noticed he was wrapped in something more than just the shirt he'd had last night. "Is that – why'm I – the jacket? But you – "

John said, "And that's exactly why you need to stay lying down. I'm _wearing_ the jacket. Sherlock bought yours off one of his… informants."

He twitched, wondering where the heavy denim fabric might have been, then decided he'd worn much worse. They must have changed the polo neck as well; it would have been torn, would have been bloodied.

A hand cupped over his eye, and John peered into the other one, checking pupillary reflexes. "I think you've gotten off with just a mild concussion there," he said. "Tell me what day it is."

"Come _on_, you wanker," he said instead. "Help me up." And he rolled onto his side, pressing his hands into the tarmac to brace himself.

John wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him the rest of the way up, grabbing him tightly when his head swam and he stumbled drunkenly.

"With any luck," he said with effort, "people will think we've had a night out on the town."

"You look like you've had a night out in a horror movie," John replied.

"Yeah, well," he shrugged, which was difficult while being supported by John, "people are idiots."

They shared a laugh.

"So we're still on the job for Sherlock, then?"

"You don't think your new _haute couture_ was just out of the kindness of his heart, do you?"

"Bloody hell," and Lestrade went to run a hand through his hair, accustomed gesture that said 'stress,' or, synonymously, 'Sherlock.' Except his fingers met a line of stiff threadwork, sparks of pain shooting from his forehead down his face and to his neck, and he twitched back, away from his own touch.

"Yeah," said John. "You won't be doing that for a while."

Wordless growl of frustration. "Fine, come on. Bastard better have left us money for breakfast."

* * *

><p>John showed him the slip of paper Sherlock had given them that day, although his subtlety had been rendered somewhat ineffective by the fact that the detective had subsequently also paid off a number of his homeless associates to rush to their defence and stayed to ensure that his request was carried out.<p>

_The Strand. Getting braver._

"Damn. Two murders in two nights?"

"Sherlock thinks he's going to keep on."

"Killing every night, you mean?"

"He said so."

Lestrade stopped his hand halfway to his head this time, letting it fall back into his lap. "What does he expect us to do, mount a two-man vigil everywhere between here and bloody Hounslow?"

"Talk to people who might've seen something last night, I expect."

"Seems too easy for Sherlock, somehow."

"Yeah? Tell me how easy it is when you can't even walk a straight line properly."

"Shut up. Ready to go and do some talking, then?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Haven't finished my tea."

And the ridiculousness of their lives struck Lestrade and he rested his head carefully in his hands and laughed, laughed for John's slowly cooling tea, laughed for the fact that they were out here freezing half to death in other people's clothes, laughed for the stitches in his head and chest and for the ache that threatened to swing him around dizzily and rob him of consciousness, laughed for himself and for John and for the crazed madman of a detective who somehow, always, managed to convince them to do this to themselves.

"You all right?" John asked him anxiously.

His fingers brushed across John's neat stitching, as gently as he could, but there was still a brief shock of pain and coloured dots swirled for a moment across his eyes.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm all right," and he laughed at that, too, because his standard for 'all right' had dropped rather alarmingly since he'd met Sherlock.

In the end, talking to people turned out to be easier than they had expected.

John had anticipated hostility; Lestrade had been prepared for exclusion. Both of them had expected the murder in the Strand to be the prime topic of conversation, and neither quite knew what to say when they arrived at a day centre some distance from yesterday's and discovered that, in fact, everyone was talking about "the gang fight last night" instead.

They listened for a bit ("I heard it was Hoxton boys," "what would they be doing down here?" "Heard it was revenge," "someone said drugs and money,") before Lestrade chuckled derisively and said, "You've no idea, have you?"

It caught their attention. "What do you mean?"

"Was _there_. I saw it."

Nervous shuffling as their eyes travelled from his face to his injuries, thick black thread making it obvious he had done more than just _see_ it. He gave them an annoyed look. "Oh, come off it, do I _look_ like a gang member?" _Ha._ "Wrong place, wrong time."

His opening gambit paid off and they were soon well into the conversation, John taking over most of the talking as Lestrade tried to keep his head straight enough to follow along. At some point, John managed to bring up the murders, asking if the people they were talking to thought they were gang-related, too (_clever_, he thought, _well done, John_), and he sat up (lightning throb through his head; squeezed his eyes shut, let it fade) and leant forward to pay closer attention.

First, though, he'd better put an end to speculation. John had brought the discussion around to what they needed to hear, but he just didn't know enough about the seedier side of London. "Nah, no way it's gangs," he scoffed. "It'd be all over. Kill someone once, maybe it's revenge, maybe it's a private message. Kill a lot of people, if you're a gang, you want everyone to know who's behind it. This isn't."

Another man, stubble and scruffy hair jammed under a black hat (RAF Mildenhall; ex-serviceman, maybe, it wasn't that uncommon on the streets) muttered something Lestrade didn't quite catch about the way the murders had been committed – the injuries, something about –

"You mean whoever's doing it is _enjoying_ it," said John, and couldn't quite suppress a shudder.

"You see some crazy stuff out here," the man said. _American_, Lestrade thought, and the unfamiliar accent did strange things to his already-disordered thoughts. "Face of humanity, I tell ya."

John kept up the back-and-forth of conversation, teasing information from those around them (mostly barely-founded opinions from the same people who'd been wrong about the fight, but the old flyer seemed to have a real idea what he was talking about). Lestrade went on listening, letting the current of the words eddy around his brain while he tried to make sense of it. God, he was tired. Or maybe that was just the boot to the head talking, or the loss of blood. Surely John would have seen to it if it were anything serious, wouldn't he?

_Focus._

"Pretty gen, aren't you?" John was saying, and Lestrade shook his head (ow, _Christ_, no, don't do that) to try to clear it, because he was relatively certain that wasn't real English.

The other man shrugged. "I'm not the one asking."

John shrugged right back, met the man's gaze. "As long as he's out there, mate, anything that keeps me out of his sights is fair game."

"Oh, yeah?"

Something wasn't sitting right with Lestrade. Something about the challenging tone this conversation had taken; something about the man's slow drawl, maybe, or the way he talked around violent and brutal deaths like they were idle curiosities instead of clamorous alarm bells for anyone who didn't have a door to lock behind themselves at night.

"James." He'd figure that one out.

"Yeah – sorry, yeah?" Apologizing for the interrupted conversation. Good. Keep up appearances.

"Nearly noon. Closing time. Should go and find a place for tonight, and all this talk isn't helping." He shifted uncomfortably, trying to look uneasy – which wasn't hard; the man in the Mildenhall hat was growing more off-putting by the minute, narrowed eyes and calculating stare.

It worked. John stood up, pushing his chair back with his knees, and offered a hand to Lestrade (standing up was still shaky; was that a bad sign?).

"Hold on." Still one thing to do, and he turned back to the man they'd been talking to. " You know your way about. Anyplace good to spend a night 'round here?"

A long stare, then, "The Cathedral."

"On a Sunday?"

"You got a problem with that?"

"Don't the police?" He really didn't know. The only time he ever had to worry about police presence in Westminster was when it revolved around a murder scene.

"They don't care."

"Thanks." And, to John, "Come on, then. Let's go."

* * *

><p>"What was that?" John asked, as they shivered together in the wind of the cathedral square. "Why are we here?"<p>

"Good place to spend a night?"

"No, seriously."

"Don't trust him," Lestrade admitted. "Seemed… wrong, somehow. I don't know. Sherlock would've been able to sort it out."

"You don't trust him, so we're taking his advice on where to sleep?"

"No. I don't trust him, so we're making sure he _knows_ where we're sleeping."

John caught on immediately, and Lestrade made a note to thank Sherlock for having conditioned his flatmate to expect this kind of outrageousness. All in a day's work at this point, really, putting themselves on the line to draw out whatever dangers might come their way.

"So we're bait."

"That's what I was going for, yeah."

"Can't say it's the first time."

"You can still leave."

John's _are-you-joking_ look was coming along well. Lestrade was reminded of the day he'd met the younger man, when John had asked Sherlock about wearing coveralls and had been rewarded with that expression for the first time. He'd learnt well; Lestrade reckoned the look he was getting now would top Sherlock's easily.

"It'd be the sensible thing to do, you know."

John shifted his gaze pointedly to Lestrade's chest, where the sharp, continuous burn had faded to a deep, unpleasant itch that stung with every inhalation.

Right. Message received. 'Sensible' not really playing a major role at the moment.

"So… what do we do between now and nighttime?"

"I'd guess we've got about seven hours before full dark." Useful knowledge if you were a scared kid who just wanted to finish a job you'd never asked for and find a safe patch for the night before the Fields Boys came out to play.

"Talk to Sherlock?"

"How do we do that?"

"Stand outside 221B and ask for change until he comes out?"

"Bit of a long shot."

"Have you got a better idea?"

He hadn't, although he vetoed the suggestion of begging ("I'm not being chased off by PCSOs in _my own supervisory area_,"), and they set out. Lucky, in the end, that they had those seven hours; though it was only a couple of miles from the cathedral to Baker Street, their adventures of the night before meant that the going was slow and punctuated repeatedly with rest stops and John's completely-disregarded insistence that they not go after all.

Being dropped onto the kerb by John was a welcome relief, and Lestrade hunched up inside his denim jacket and fended off the doctor as he tried to check that the stitches had survived the journey intact.

"Oi, hands to yourself!"

"You can hardly stand. I think I'm well within my rights."

"Well, go and be within them somewhere else. I'm fine. I've just walked across half bloody Westminster, haven't I?"

"Yeah, and now look at you."

"Bugger off, would you?"

Of course, Sherlock chose that moment to exit the front door of 221, shooting them a condescending glance as he went.

John bit back the urge to respond in kind. "Any change, sir?"

Sherlock came over to them. "What do you want?"

"Nice to see you, too," Lestrade muttered, softly enough that they wouldn't be overheard. After all, Sherlock might consider the fact that he was the reason Lestrade was sitting here, held together mostly by catgut and John's careful ministrations.

John said, "Westminster Cathedral tonight," and Lestrade added, "On the piazza."

Sherlock nodded, crammed something from his pocket into John's hand and left, walking briskly in the opposite direction.

"What's that?"

John opened his hand and flattened out the crumpled bit of paper. "Nothing. Takeaway receipt."

"Had to give us something."

"I asked for _change_."

"Yeah, well, at least he'll know where to be tonight," Lestrade pointed out, taking the receipt from John and tucking it into a pocket of the stiff denim jacket.

"Maybe this time he'll show up _before_ anyone gets hurt."

"Speaking of which, give me a hand here."

John cast a long look at the curtain-covered windows of 221B. "You know, I have proper medical supplies _right there_."

"Come away."

"How's the head?"

"_Murderous._"

"That's not even funny."

"Yeah, it is."

"It's _not_."


	5. Chapter 5

People filled the cathedral square as the light faded from the evening sky and Lestrade leant back against the sturdy brick of a tree planter near the entrance to the church. The end of the Missa Cantata was still reverberating through the ornate building and latecomers straggled in for the seven o'clock spoken Mass.

He and John were sitting on the pavement below the edge of the planter, using it to shield themselves from the wind. There were already a few people gathered about the square who didn't appear to have any intention of attending Mass, and they sent the occasional probing look (promptly returned in kind) toward the two men.

"Establishing territory," Lestrade said softly.

"What, like, telling us to leave?"

He inclined his head slowly to one side, the best he could manage for a no. "Just letting us know they're in charge here – been around longer. Seeing we're not going to make trouble."

"If they knew our track record so far…"

Chuckling, and Lestrade's hand on John's shoulder.

"It's fine," he said, reassuring. Westminster was a common place for sleeping rough – he'd done it time and again himself – and though the City Council strongly disapproved and residents of the area were none too pleased either, it remained a well-known place to bed down if you'd nowhere else to go.

"Shouldn't we, you know, warn them?"

_What? That one of us or, failing that, one of them, might well be up for the chopping block tonight?_

"_That_ would be making trouble."

"Telling them it's dangerous?"

"With what proof? No. We just keep an eye out."

The deep tones of the deacon reading out the liturgy could be heard faintly from beyond the tall, arched doors and John turned to catch what little of the words he could. "Always wondered what it was like in there."

"Never been in?"

"No. Sort of felt like I didn't belong, you know? Not Catholic enough. Not Catholic at all. Have you?"

"Been in? Yeah, but not like you'd think. Part of an investigation."

They settled in, letting the half-intelligible words roll over them, relaxing in the rhythms despite the cold that tensed their muscles and bit into their skin. John shivered, and Lestrade said, "Swap me jackets."

"What?"

"Give me your jacket. Take mine."

"What? Why?"

"Mine's warmer."

"And you're hurt. Keep it."

"No, I'm not even cold. Come on." He had the short denim jacket off already, dropping it into John's lap as though he couldn't bear to touch it.

"I – " but John knew when he was beaten, so he stripped the windcheater from his body and helped Lestrade into it, getting it on quickly to preserve as much of the warmth in it as he could. "Why'm I getting the royal treatment all of a sudden?"

"I'm not cold."

"I've slept through worse. Soldier, remember?"

"So have I."

When the Mass ended, John nudged Lestrade and tilted his head toward the edge of the piazza. There was a brief glimpse of dark, swirling coat – Sherlock, early, lost amid the crowd of people streaming from the church doors – and then nothing.

"How long do you think," John asked, "before he's utterly bored?"

"Probably already is."

They shared a wry grin at that and lapsed back into cold, but comfortable silence. John, Lestrade thought, was the sort of fellow you were glad to have on your side – and the sort of fellow _he_ was glad to have on Sherlock's side. Even if it did mean a bloody freezing weekend on the streets and having to play surgeon on some idiot gang-member-turned-copper who happened to be out there with you.

The square quieted as the last of the tourists and churchgoers vanished, and the dark shapes huddled around the edges of the open area were now no longer moving, staying for the night. Lestrade wondered for a moment which one of them was Sherlock, before rolling his eyes at himself for entertaining the notion that the detective would let himself be seen. He would be off somewhere around a corner or in a cab or on a rooftop, the melodramatic git. His eyes flicked up to the cathedral spires, but that was too ridiculous even for Sherlock and he shrugged deeper into the lined windcheater, hiding from the wind.

John blew on his hands, which he'd had shoved deep into his denim pockets. "Reckon we're convincingly asleep yet?"

"Might have been until you said that."

"Night, Greg."

His first name. He wondered why John had chosen to use it, but found he didn't mind. "Night, John."

* * *

><p>He wasn't entirely sure he hadn't dozed off a few times. Certainly, he wasn't perceiving the night as clearly as he had been a few hours ago. The dark was thicker now, the piazza filled with the muttering of low voices and the wind. Cars passed occasionally down the street to their north, but the headlamps went unnoticed as they swept across the scene and continued on their way.<p>

It was the sound that had brought him back to some approximation of alertness now, his mind fuzzy with cold; he'd heard something – a step, a breath, something that was out of place, too close. Now there was nothing, but if he stayed still…

Yes, one footstep and then another, quicker now across the paving stones in their direction – why had they stopped? To make sure they were sleeping, perhaps; or, if his earlier instincts were not wrong, to get a look at their faces. To be certain they were the two who had been making uncomfortable enquiries about a particular set of gruesome crimes…

_Stay still_, he warned himself again, as the image of the body they'd seen yesterday flashed across his mind. He'd seen it all before, yeah, at crime scene after crime scene. But the idea that he might be setting himself up for that – or, worse, _John_ – still had an impact that an ordinary ten-forty-five wouldn't.

Wasn't going to happen. If he'd really thought it would, they wouldn't be here. Right?

Light step. Light step. Quiet rustle of cloth against cloth and every instinct in him screamed to roll away, get up, run, _now_ –

"You'd be much better at this if you were less predictable," a voice rang out across the square.

_Sherlock._

He was on his feet in moments, ignoring the rush of giddiness and pain.

Those same steps, heavy now, running away, and without even thinking, he struck out after them, feet landing at awkward angles as he followed the sound, wishing his eyes would clear of the bright sparks swimming in front of them so he could run _properly_.

"Hey! Hey," and someone caught him, holding him upright as he blinked, tried to push away, find the footsteps again. "It's all right, it's all right, we've got him."

_Got him?_

Sherlock came up behind them, walking – _sauntering_, damn him, like he didn't even care – and nodded. "Yes," he said. "Red-handed, if you will. Knife out and everything. I don't think we'll have much trouble proving intent there."

Lestrade grasped the tail ends of the words, mashing them together in his head into something meaningful. _Red-handed… knife… trouble… intent…_

Meaning to kill him or John. Or both. Better both; keep them quiet.

What?

"Killer… you…"

"Got him, yeah." And that was John, voice sliding from warm affirmation to concern. "Hey. You all right?"

"'course I am," he tried to say, but he didn't think that was quite what came out as he gave up being 'all right' and let his eyes fall shut.

* * *

><p>This time, when he woke up, he was at Baker Street.<p>

_The couch_, he thought, and felt the crispness of new bandages over his head and chest, the warmth of blankets wrapped tightly around him. And a heavy weight against his legs – or was that just one more thing he'd done to himself? He raised his head (bloody hell, was that ever going to stop hurting like that?) and cracked open one eye enough to see John Watson, fast asleep sitting on the floor, back against the couch cushions and his legs.

Oh, right, then. Why wasn't he in bed?

"He refused to leave."

"Don't _do_ that, Sherlock," Lestrade whispered.

"Why not?"

"It's… unsettling."

"This from the man who baited a serial knife murderer. Twice, if one takes into account your enquiries at The Passage."

"Yeah, and whose bloody fault was that?"

"Will you two shut up?" John asked wearily from the end of the couch, position unchanged, eyes still closed. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Better off in a bed," Lestrade pointed out, "which you have _right here_."

John opened his eyes enough for a sleepy glare, then pushed himself up off the floor. "Shove over."

"What?"

He sat at the far end of the couch and wriggled down, making room for himself by pushing Lestrade out of the way. "All right?"

"That's _not_ a bed."

"'s comfortable," he said. "Not climbing all those stairs now."

Much as it ought not to be, Lestrade had to admit it _was_ comfortable. Maybe it was just long, cold nights on the street speaking, or maybe he was still too tired to think straight. Either way, he wasn't going to complain.

Twisting to look at Sherlock, he asked, "What about the murderer?"

"In custody. I did have police backup, you know."

"How – "

"DI Dimmock."

A small, satisfied smile escaped and danced across his face for a moment. So Sherlock _could_ get along with other people if he had to. And Dimmock was a notoriously difficult man to get along with.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself."

"Do as I like."

"Go back to sleep."

Lestrade considered arguing, but decided he really didn't object to that at all.

It was good to have someplace to come home to in the end.


End file.
